


La vie en rose

by weneedtotalkaboutsherlock (Paradoxe1914)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Fluff, French workshops, Humor, John is bad at French, John thinks Sherlock is French, M/M, Sherlock Speaks French, That's it, Unilock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-16
Updated: 2019-03-08
Packaged: 2019-10-29 08:48:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 18,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17804873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Paradoxe1914/pseuds/weneedtotalkaboutsherlock
Summary: The only reason why John took French class, well, was because Mary said something about it being the language of love. If John, at the time, had sneered internally, he propped his chin on the back of his hand and asked her to tell him more about it.Let it be said that John Watson is not entirely incapable of taking a clue.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've been learning German at uni since September, and I might have a slight crush on the german girl who is doing the workshops. The situation inspired me to write this fic, but to change German for French, since it's a general headcanon that Sherlock speaks French, which is also my first language and I will finally be able to use it in fic!
> 
> For the format, Sherlock's French is in italics, and the translation is written right after between [ ]. Obviously, John, who is really bad at French, does not understand a word that Sherlock is saying, unless it's stated otherwise. So the translations are only there for you, and so that you don't have to go to the end notes every time to understand. When others than Sherlock speak French, their mistakes are in italics. If I find a better system along the way, I'll use it.
> 
> This will be maybe 7-8 chapters, and short as well. I don't have a posting schedule, I'm posting this as I go! I'll probably add tags as this develops, but I plan for this to stay T, so there won't be any explicit bits.

 

> MAÎTRE DE PHILOSOPHIE.— La voix, U, se forme en rapprochant les dents sans les joindre entièrement, et allongeant les deux lèvres en dehors, les approchant aussi l'une de l'autre sans les rejoindre tout à fait, U.
> 
> MONSIEUR JOURDAIN.— U, U. Il n'y a rien de plus véritable, U.
> 
> MAÎTRE DE PHILOSOPHIE.— Vos deux lèvres s'allongent comme si vous faisiez la moue: d'où vient que si vous la voulez faire à quelqu'un, et vous moquer de lui, vous ne sauriez lui dire que U.
> 
> MONSIEUR JOURDAIN.— U, U. Cela est vrai. Ah que n'ai-je étudié plus tôt, pour savoir tout cela.
> 
> MAÎTRE DE PHILOSOPHIE.— Demain, nous verrons les autres lettres, qui sont les consonnes.
> 
> MONSIEUR JOURDAIN.— Est-ce qu'il y a des choses aussi curieuses qu'à celles-ci?
> 
>  
> 
> PHILOSOPHY MASTER: The vowel U is formed by bringing the teeth nearly together without completely joining them, and thrusting the two lips outward, also bringing them nearly together without completely joining them: U.
> 
> MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: U, U. There's nothing truer. U.
> 
> PHILOSOPHY MASTER: Your two lips thrust out as if you were making a face, whence it results that if you want to make a face at someone and mock him, you have only to say to him "U."
> 
> MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: U, U. That's true. Ah! Why didn't I study sooner in order to know all that!
> 
> PHILOSOPHY MASTER: Tomorrow we shall look at the other letters, which are the consonants.
> 
> MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: Are there things as curious about them as about these?
> 
>  
> 
> \- _Le bourgeois gentilhomme_ , Molière

 

 

 

The only reason why John took French class, well, was because Mary said something about it being the _language of love_. If John, at the time, had sneered internally, he propped his chin on the back of his hand and asked her to tell him more about it.

Let it be said that John Watson is not entirely incapable of taking a clue.

Mary is fun and direct, the kind of girl that knows what she wants and will do whatever she needs to take it. She studies nursing, is a fan of criminal shows, and John would like very much to get an invitation back to her place one day and get cosy in front of the TV. He has never been very good with long-term relationships, but somehow, when he looks at Mary and her mischievous smile, he thinks that it could work. Except that lately, she has been playing hard to get.

So what if John has to learn a few sentences in French to impress a girl who did an exchange in Paris two summers ago? It's not like it's going to be _hard_. It's French, for God's sake, and for _beginners_. It's not like he already knows the bases. _Bonjour, baguette, croissant_. There. He only needs to develop his skills a bit, learn how to flirt in French, and he can already see her in his bed.

When he confirmed his inscription for French class that winter, he chuckled and mentally patted himself.

He dragged Greg, his best friend, in the whole ordeal, of course. Greg is two years older than him, studies law, and has the worst luck with ladies after his girlfriend of one year cheated on him. And then got back with him again. And then cheated on him. And then got back with him again again. And then cheated again again _again_ on him. And like the good friend he is, John suffered through the three rough patches by pushing Greg towards pubs and mindless one-night stands, biting back every time his own opinion about how that girl was particularly awful, and how Greg was a bit of an idiot to go back to her every time.

"I know what you think about this, John," Greg would always say, taking the airs of a wise, greying man, "but it's not like I can't control it. You'll understand what I mean, the day you'll fall in love."

Every time, John would chuckle and clench his jaw. "I don't know, mate, this Mary, I can… I can feel it, like she's going to be the one, you know?"

"Don't sweat it, man," Greg would inevitably answer him, unconvinced. "It's not like being constipated, you can't exactly force it out."

And they would smile at each other, trying to forget about that one ex and that one girl he's meant to fall in love with. Usually, a great deal of alcohol would help along that process.

It took a while convincing Greg that he should take the class with John, but he agreed, in the end. John isn't exactly sure how French will help in Greg's case, but at least it would take his mind off what has been happening lately. And maybe learn a few handy insults to add to his already growing repertoire.

It was a bit of a surprise, when John was confronted with his teacher during first class, to see that he wasn't understanding a _single_ word she was saying. No mention of baguettes nor croissants. It took many repetitions, a few questions in English, and three hours of class for him to be able to mutter the three questions and answers they learned. He is fairly sure he will entirely forget how to pronounce them by the time next class rolls around.

Mrs Bouchard, nonplussed at her student's inability to form coherent sentences, gave them a schedule of workshops led by the French assistant, and explained that they could get bonus points when going to them. Four workshops, for a total of 2% added to their final grade. John really can't say no to that.

That's why he shows up on Monday afternoon, late as always, to the small office in a corner of the language department.

"Sorry— sorry," he pants after having stepped in and closed the door behind him. "Practice was late and I needed to—"

He stops right in his tracks. The small room is crowded, with six or seven students cramped around a small rectangular table, propped between a desk, the door, and a board on the wall. Everyone is watching him with the same intensity as if he was the Messiah reincarnated or wearing a complete drag queen outfit.

Before he can ask what's wrong, the person standing up near the board clears their throat.

John looks up, and drops both his pencil case and his dignity on the floor.

The man— the _young_ man that is staring right back seems to be as surprised as he is, his blue-green eyes sweeping over John's body as if he can read him like a book. For an instant, John is convinced he can.

" _Assieds-toi_ ," [sit down,] the man says, and his voice is deep and sends a shiver down his spine. A thought sparks in his mind: _this is what Mary meant_.

The second his brain starts working again, he scrambles for his pencil case, and sits down beside Greg. Everyone around the table is still silent, looking at the assistant. Are they equally plunged in deep awe of him?

"Thought you'd never make it," Greg whispers, which makes John frown. It's not like they're in a class where they can't speak. "Thank God."

And then it hits him: they're afraid of the man.

Why?

The assistant clears his throat again, and Greg nearly bounces up on his chair, his attention leaving John altogether.

" _Je disais_ ," the assistant says, apparently continuing a speech John had interrupted upon entering the room. " _Je disais que vous vous êtes plongés dans l’étude de la langue française peut-être par curiosité, mais certainement avec l’intention de déployer de considérables efforts pour mener à bien cette entreprise. Sachez que la langue de Molière n’est pas des plus faciles, mais si noble que son apprentissage ne peut être que générateur de profondes connaissances qui viendront vous éclairer sur vos propres forces et faiblesses. Ainsi, je vous demande à tous de mener à terme ce cheminement avec le plus grand soin, et j’attends de vous la plus grande coopération et un travail des plus acharnés._ " [I was saying that you started to study French maybe because you were curious, but certainly with the intention of making considerable efforts to success with this undertaking. Know that the language of Molière is not the easiest of languages, but it is so noble that its learning can only be a source of profound knowledge that might throw light on your own strengths and weaknesses. And so, I am asking of you to go through this study with the greatest care, and in the hope that you will cooperate and work as hard as you can.]

John, gaping, throws a look around just to be sure that he is not the only one who has understood shit about this little speech. The same quizzical expression appears on his colleagues, who were most likely not taken by the man's lips, nor with the soothing sound of his voice.

"Sorry," he says, "but could you repeat? I'm not sure I caught that."

The assistant raises his eyebrows, and for the first time, John gets that he might not understand English very well. God, that's a bit of a situation. Does anybody know sign language?

The assistant looks at them, one at the time, before he throws his hands up in the air. " _Putain!_ " he exclaims, and Greg jumps again on his chair. " _Non mais, déjà que cette situation est détestable, je suis entouré d’un groupe d’imbéciles. Un qui… reprend le cours pour une deuxième fois, un cocu, deux idiots qui pensent impressionner des filles avec leur français élémentaire, et une… une je ne sais pas pourquoi. Est-ce que quelqu'un parle français rien qu'un petit peu? Non?!_ " [Fuck! No, this situation is hell already, I am in company of imbeciles. One that… is taking the class for the second time, a man that got cheated on, two idiots who think they can impress girls with a base in French, and one girl… I don't know even why she's here. Does anyone speak French, even a little bit? No?!]

He had stopped his gaze on Molly, a girl that John knows from his core med classes. She's heavily blushing, playing with the end of her ponytail, and John internally sneers at her. Really, this bloke? She doesn't have _any_ chance.

Wilkes, whom John knows from his usually very boring presence at parties, finally speaks up. From what John understands, he took the class last semester and failed, so if anyone knows a bit of French, it would be him. " _Nous as pas apprendre ça. Juste présentation._ " [We have not learning that. Only presentation.]

The assistant growls, and leans over John's shoulder to grab his notebook, apparently not minding at all the concept of personal space. Furiously, he goes through the first few pages, analysing what they have seen during the first class. He's… very new at this, John reflects, smiling. For some reason, he doesn't scare him as much as he scares the others. Okay, he might be a bit of French snob, but now that the inexplicable shock of their first meeting has passed, John can risk a look above his shoulder to assess the man again, he can see that he's just a young and tired student, like all of them. Ecstatic, he even looks boyish with his curls bouncing around, his long and pale fingers running through the pages of John's notebook. His full, pink lips are moving silently, the pupil of his eyes moving at incredible speed. He looks something like a mad genius.

" _O.K._ ," he finally says. " _Nous allons commencer par les présentations, puisqu'on dirait que c'est tout ce que votre cerveau est capable d'enregistrer dans un cours de trois heures. Toi, commence, allez_ ," [Okay, we'll start with presentations, since it seems like it's the only thing your brain was able to register in three full hours of class. You, start, go,] he adds, pointing Greg.

Greg opens his notebook to the first page. "Er— je _u_ m'appelle Gregory. Je _u_ viens de Londres. Je _u_ _hhh_ abite Londres."

" _À_ Londres," the assistant corrects.

"À Londres," Greg repeats, his face a bit grey.

They go around the table, and John snickers at the bad accents and the messed up words, until it's inevitably his turn. He needs to do this well, or he might make a fool of himself for a second time, and that just can't happen. Not in front of this man.

"Eh—ehh—" he clears his throat, his hands a bit sweaty. This is easy, he's done it last week in class! Come on, Watson! "Eh—"

The assistant waits, eyebrows raised. This is not helping at all.

"Ehh— je _u_ _maple_ John."

"M'appelle."

"That's what I said: maple."

The assistant shakes his head. "Non non non, m-app-elle," he spells out, as if John is some kind of bumbling idiot.

"Je _u_ _maple_ John. Je _u_ — je _u_ , je _u_ … vin in Londressss."

" _Viens_ _de_ Londres."

John licks his hips. "Je _u vin_ de Londres. Je _u_ _hhh_ abite eeh—"

"À Londres."

"À Londres," John concludes, his throat tight, feeling so tired that he could sleep for a whole week.

Fortunately, the assistant's attention turns on Molly, and John reclines on his chair. He starts breathing normally again, his shoulder brushing Greg's. "That went well, didn't it?"

Instead of answering, Greg shrugs.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all your lovely comments on the first chapter! Here comes the second one! :) I do have to say that Sherlock and I speak French from different parts of the world -- his is from France, and mine is from Québec. I do know how French people sound like, but I'm sorry if there are a few idioms or expressions and such that I get wrong! :) 
> 
> Warning for homophobic slurs in this chapter -- sorry!

 

"Why would I want to join a conversation group?" Greg grumbles. "I literally know three sentences."

From the second John had left the workshop, he spent every moment of his busy, busy student life thinking about the French language. Rehashing over and over again the three sentences. He eats _Je m'appelle John_ for breakfast, _Je viens de Londres_ for lunch, and _J'habite à Londres_ for supper. If he can write them correctly and can find the three conjugated verbs in any sentence that I presented to him, the trouble is that he still doesn't feel like he can pronounce them properly.

Hours of listening to Google translation's robotic voices left him with the slight impression that he sounds like an idiot when he tries to speak French.

Which is a bit inconvenient. For flirting reasons.

"Come on, you'd benefit from it too," he tells Greg, because Greg can't know about his little pronunciation problem. Greg doesn't seem to have that problem. Okay, Greg does have a bit of an English accent, but he certainly doesn't speak as if he was also eating a whole _baguette_ at the same time.

"And who exactly would be joining this group?" Greg says, his eyebrows raised with slight interest.

"Well, you… and me."

"John, we don't need to schedule any meetings to talk French when we only have to go to a pub and get properly pissed for that to happen."

Greg might have a point.

And so, John continues his lonely quest to become the most proficient speaker of a language composed of three sentences. Before he knows it, Monday rolls around again, with French class in the morning, and an impending workshop in the afternoon, just before anatomy class.

And John, happy about finally getting some results after countless hours of studying, is faced with the fact that this week, they're moving unto food.

During the break, he nervously reads his notes all over again. "Do you think we'll be practizing food at the workshop too?" he asks Greg.

"Yeah, I don't see why not, last week we practized what we learned that morning."

John clears his throat. "What do you think about the assistant?"

"Dunno," Greg shrugs, and he seems a bit surprised by John's question. "He clearly knows what he's talking about, the only problem is that we have no idea what he's saying. From what Molly told me, all language assistants here take English classes to perfect their skills. Apparently, you need at fairly good English level if you want your application to be considered in the first place. I don't know why it didn't apply to him. Maybe he's got connections, or something."

"Okay, but what about him?" Greg did not mention how gorgeous the assistant is, nor how clever he seems, with his deep gaze reading right into John's soul. He's never met someone like that, and he can't have been the only one to notice.

Greg frowns, staring at John as if he just asked the weirdest question. "What about him?"

"Have you _seen_ him— wait, Molly? You said you were talking with _Molly_?" Greg doesn't know Molly. He can't know her, since she's in med, and Greg is in law school, and she never comes at parties anyway.

"Er, we were both early at the workshop, so we talked a bit. She took Italian last year, that's why she knows about assistants and stuff," he adds, as if John is caring about _that_ part. Greg looks so unnecessarily casual that John can't help but cringe a bit — he's got after all a bit of a reputation for getting crush on unattainable girls, and although Molly doesn't seem to be quite in that category, she's clearly more taken with the assistant than with Greg. John can only bear himself for another disappointment on his best mate's part.

"What were you saying? If I've seen him?" Greg asks, still stuck on that point of the conversation.

John shakes his head, aware that he may have gone a bit too far. Just as he is about to justify himself, the bloke who is seating just in front of them turns on his chair.

"Wait, are you talking about the Monday workshop?"

Ah, John thinks, that would be Anderson, the bloke who struggled so much with presenting himself in French that he was able to mess up pronouncing his own name. What an absolute idiot.

Wilkes, walking back to his table with a coffee in hand, steps into the conversation as if he was invited. "Oh? Are we talking about _Sherrrleuk Ôlmes_?"

Both him and Anderson snicker.

John frowns, and turns to Greg. " _Sherrrleuk_?"

"Oh yeah, he presented himself before you arrived. If I heard right, he comes from Provence and studies chemistry here."

"God, you were listening to what he was saying?" Wilkes sneers. "I was way too bothered by what he was wearing to mind what he was saying. Did you see his shirt? That thing is so tight I thought it would rip in my face."

"Right?" Anderson laughs. "I just hope that he won't show up this afternoon wearing makeup or something. What a fag."

John's gaze drops to his notebook, instantly focusing on vegetable vocabulary, miles away from Wilkes and Anderson's snickering. He jumps on his chair the moment Greg's fist lands on the table. "What the fuck, Anderson! Are you bloody _twelve_?"

John has seldom seen Greg angry like he is now, and it makes the two other step back instantly, a weird look on their faces as if they've been confronted with a pair of smelly socks.

"Jesus mate, he didn't mean it that way," Wilkes argues.

"Oh yeah, he meant it in a _nice_ way, I'm sure. We aren't in secondary school anymore, fucking—"

"Just— drop it, Greg," John says. "It's fine."

Greg stares at him, bewildered. "The hell it's fine! Am I the only one who sees what's wrong with this?"

Anderson is about to say something more, when John cuts him to the chase. "No, you're not, but they're not worth arguing with. Drop it."

Greg leans back against his chair, crossing his arms, his tongue popping against his cheek as if he's eating some kind of sour candy. Both Anderson and Wilkes stare at John.

"Allons, allons, nous allons reprendre le cours, merci," [come on, come on, we're resuming the class, please,] Mrs Bouchard says, just as he thought the air couldn't be filled with more tension if they tried.

Wilkes sniffs, and walk away, while Anderson turns back to face the front of the class, is chair raking on the ground. For the whole hour-and-a-half left, John barely registers what is said, his hands moist and propped between his thighs.

 

***

 

This time, practice finishes on time, and he is able to make it early to the workshop. He won't make the same mistake twice.

The door is closed, but since it was also the case last week, John takes a chance and opens it. He steps into the small room, and a stone sinks in his stomach when he understands that he's the first to have arrived. The assistant — Sherlock — is sitting at the other end of the room, leaning back on his chair with his feet up on his desk. His eyes are closed, and John would think that he is taking a nap, except that both his hands are propped under his chin. He stares for a second, and he can't help to notice the detail of Sherlock's heavy eyelids, or how his Cupid bow's delicately curves his upper lip. John glances at the clock on the wall: he's a good ten minutes before the actual start of the workshop. What was he thinking?

Before his presence can be noticed, he turns on his heels and reaches for the doorknob.

" _Bonjour, John_."

A shiver goes down his spine at the mention of his name. _He remembered_. He drops his raised hand, and turns back to face Sherlock, who's gaze travels up and down John's body in infinitesimal movements. _I can come back later_ , John wants to say, but isn't sure how he would say it in French.

Instead, he tries, " _Bonnjourn, Sherrrleuk._ "

From where he is, John can bet that Sherlock is biting on his lower lip, but he averts his gaze at the last second. That's enough staring for the next decade, thank you very much.

" _Assieds-toi_ ," Sherlock says, and John recognizes it for the same thing that was asked of him last week. Without replying, since he can't exactly throw where he lives or a type of fruit in _this_ conversation, he sits down, takes his pencil case and his notebook out of his bag and starts going through the notes he took this morning.

He can't concentrate enough to read a single thing, but it's not like he can do anything other than power through this awkward situation. Sherlock, on his side, doesn't seem to be bothered, since he has not moved an inch since John came in.

John swallows, and thinks about what Anderson said earlier. Sure, Sherlock dresses well, but that doesn't necessarily mean that he's gay. He hasn't shown any interest in Molly, who had spent the whole workshop last week blushing at him, but it's not like he has shown interest in any of the men either. And even if he's gay, it's not like John cares. He's not homophobic. For God's sake, his _sister_ is gay. He doesn't have anything against them. And Sherlock might not even be gay. There is no proof to support that. For all he knows, he might be sleeping around with the whole campus. Girls must flock around a bloke like him, tall and elegant and gorgeous, who probably seduces them with a sexy accent and moans French filth in the throes of passion. Again, it's not like John cares about that. At all.

After a minute or two, Sherlock stands up, and goes around his desk. John, still pretending to read his notes, can't help but look from the corner of his eye. Sherlock takes a pile of paper on his desk, goes around the table, nearly elbowing the computer off his desk, and sets the papers in front of John. They represent different types of food, with the corresponding word written under them.

John looks up, unsure what he's supposed to do with that, only to find Sherlock looming over him, a pair of scissors in hand. " _Tiens, tu peux couper ça en carrés égaux. Si je ne me trompe pas, ta motricité fine est meilleure que ton français_." [Here, you can cut this into same-sized squares. If I'm not mistaken, your fine motor skills are better than your French.]

John clears his throat, accepting the scissors. "Merci," he says, and instantly feels a bit dumb. He's helping him, after all he should be the one to be thanked, but it's obvious that Sherlock won't do that anytime soon.

Sherlock returns to his desk, and props his feet up again, reclining into what seems to be his thinking pose. John frowns, and picks up the pieces of paper to be cut. He definitely feels silly now, doing the assistant's job in his place. He feels sillier when he realises he's been cutting these squares with utter concentration, as if he was back in preschool and gifted scissors for the very first time.

It does not help that Sherlock is clearly staring at him. It makes the back of John's neck tingle uncomfortably, and again, it's hard to do his job correctly without looking back at the man. What does he want? What does he _see_?

The door opens, and John's head flies up, just as Sherlock stands behind his desk, rather jerkily.

"Sorry, sorry— er, _pardon_ ," Molly says, entering the room, followed by Greg, Anderson, Wilkes and a girl John doesn't know. "We didn't know if we could enter or…"

Behind her, Greg's eyes lock with John's, before John looks down again. He can only hope that he's not blushing, for God's sake, as if he has been found in some compromising position.

" _Entrez, entrez_ ," [come on in, come on in,] Sherlock says, and John can't hep but notice how he seems vaguely annoyed.

"Hey mate." Greg drops his bag beside him, and sits down, while the girls g to the other side of the desk, and Wilkes and Anderson sit at the other end of it, facing Sherlock's place.

"Hey," John says, cutting the last piece of paper depicting an orange. "What? It's not like I would be late twice in a row. Definitely not after what happened last week."

"'S fine." Greg is not particularly minding him at the moment, but rather staring at Molly, who is talking animatedly with what seems to be her friend. Wait, isn't she in med too? A year earlier than John, just like Molly? What's her name again, then? Stephanie? Sarah? John is pretty sure it's Sarah.

He's about to elbow Greg back to reality when Sherlock speaks up. " _Bon, je dois vous prévenir qu'il y a quelques petits changements concernant le déroulement des ateliers, puisque, à ce qu'il paraît, mon approche n'était pas assez pédagogique. Comme si vous étiez des élèves de maternelle_ ," he sneers, " _mais après vous avoir entendu parler, je ne peux que constater que cela semble être le cas. Je vais donc devoir suivre le plan de l'ancien assistant, qui pour mon malheur et pour le vôtre, nous propose une panoplie de jeux. Oui, des jeux. Et moi qui pensais que nous sommes à l'université. Enfin. Nous allons commencer avec le plus ennuyant qui soit, intitulé avec grande originalité Dans mon panier. La première personne pioche une carte et dit Dans mon panier, j'ai… suivi du mot contenu sur la carte. La seconde personne doit répéter le contenu du coffre de la première personne, piocher une carte, et ainsi de suite. On m'a dit que c'est un jeu de mémoire, mais franchement, si vous n’êtes pas capable de vous rappeler d'une séquence de mots élémentaires prononcés dans les quinze dernières minutes de votre vie, ce n'est pas de moi dont vous avez besoin, mais d'un médecin._ " [Okay, I need to tell you that there are a few changes concerning the workshop, because my approach to them wasn't apparently pedagogical enough. As if you were preschoolers. But after having heard you speak, I can see why that would be the case. So, I will follow the plan of the previous assistant, which, unfortunately, features a lot of games. Yes, games. And I thought we were at university. Well. We're starting with the most boring of them all, title with a lot of originality as _In my cart_. The first person picks a card, and says _In my cart, I have…_ and finishes the sentence with the word they have picked. The following player has to repeat what was in the first person's luggage, pick a card, and so on. They told me that this is a memory game, but frankly, if you're not able to memorise a sequence of elementary words said in the last fifteen minutes of your life, you don't need me, but a doctor.]

" _Commence_ ," [begin,] he adds, pointing Molly.

"Er—" she starts, looking at the cards with no idea what to do but to blush.

" _Oh, mais merde_ ," [oh, shit,] Sherlock sighs. " _Dans mon panier, j'ai…_ " he starts, and picks up a card. " _Une banane_." [A banana.] He shows everyone the card, which makes Anderson and Wilkes snicker. " _À toi_ ," [your turn,] he tells Molly.

" _Dan_ mon panierrr, j'ai… une banane, et un lait." [A banana and a milk.]

" _Du_ lait."

"Du lait."

They go around the table until it's John's turn, to recite everyone's bloody cart by heart. This is way harder in French than English. " _Dan my_ panierrr, j'a _ye_ … une banan _a_ , une lait, du chocol _ate_ , du café, une _orange_ , un _pain_ , et… un pomme." [… A banana, a milk, chocolate, coffee, one orange, one bread, one apple.]

" _Une_ pomme."

"How come it's _une_ pomme but _un_ pain," John grumbles, softly enough that only Greg hears.

"I guess apples are more feminine than bread."

He groans. "That makes no sense at all. Who decided that object have _genders_?"

It takes him a second to notice that everyone is watching them.

"Right, that's so silly, isn't it?" Sarah chimes in, smiling at him.

Sherlock clears his throat, bringing back the general attention on him. " _J'imagine que vous êtes trop imbéciles pour comprendre les subtilités d'une langue tel le français, mais vous ne m'étonnez plus. Bon, changeons de jeu_." [I imagine that you are too dumb to understand the subtleties of a language like French, but you don't surprise me anymore. Okay, let's do another game.]

Greg questions John with a look, who can only shrug. Whatever Sherlock keeps telling them, he doesn't understanding.

They play another memory game, the one where all cards are turned down on the table, and they need to turn them in order to find pairs, with the added difficulty of saying if this is, or is not, the food they're searching for. For once, John is doing fairly well at the game since they only need to repeat the one sentence or add the negative, and he's quick at remembering the cards, even if Sherlock is still looming about his shoulder, watching how the game develops.

Anderson, in turn, is not so talented. It's his fifth round, and he still can't find the second card for bread, even though everyone knows it's in the second row, third position. John's eyes nearly start bleeding when he sees Anderson going for the fifth row, about to turn a card he's already turned on his second round.

Before Anderson can do so, Sherlock jumps in. " _Mais merde!_ " he shouts, grabbing the right card and turning it for everyone to see.

John chuckles, delighted that someone actually did what he had in mind for the past five minutes, but that doesn't seem to be enough for Sherlock, who starts turning every card at top speed, finding every pair on the first try.

Ten seconds later, Sherlock steps away from the table, breathing hard, as if he just registered what he has done.

John bites on his lower lip, preventing himself for laughing at the silliness of the situation, but everyone else is looking rather intense.

"Fucking weirdo," Anderson says, loud enough for everyone to hear.

"Shut up," John snaps at him.

"Come on, it's not like he can understand anyway."

"Not a reason to insult people," Sarah says, even though she looks like she might agree with him.

John nods. Of course Sherlock might not understand, but he's clever enough to catch the derisive tone and get the idea from there. For some reason, he imagines that it's not the first time Sherlock is called such names. God, people are idiots.

Sherlock clears his throat, apparently unbothered. " _Il reste dix minutes. Mettez-vous deux par deux et pratiquez la prononciation des nouveaux mots de vocabulaire._ " [We have ten minutes left. Practice vocabulary pronunciation two by two.]

Everyone moves slowly, and this time, no questions are asked. When the hour is done, Sherlock ushers them out of his office. John takes his time, collecting the cards from the table and putting them in a neat pile on Sherlock's desk, who stares at him. A bit unsure about what to say, John decides to say nothing, and goes for the door.

"John?" Sherlock says in his back.

"Yes?" John turns.

" _À la semaine prochaine._ " [See you next week.]

"Bye," he answers, and leaves the room smiling.

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just to warn you, next chapter might be up less quickly than usual, since I have a busy week ahead of me! I think it will take me at least a few days until I can post it here!
> 
> Warning in this chapter for mention of drugs (specifically weed at a party, but none of the important characters are smoking it), and throwing up. Sorry!

 

He is sitting at a table in the middle of the hallway, one of those in-between places where it's less loud than the cafeteria, but not as religiously silent as the library. Greg, sitting in front of him, is currently knees-deep into studying one of his law classes, not that John understands much about it anyway. John, in a spark of unexpected cleverness, is studying one week ahead of his French class, as to be less lost on Monday. The book says they'll be tackling on different kinds of conversations and small talk, that apparently take place in a coffee shop, so that they need to learn how to order food and drinks, now that they know how to pronounce them.

And it seems like there's one particular set of sentences that might help John with his original endeavour:

 _Je suis célibataire._ / _Je suis amoureux._ / _Je suis en couple._ / _Je suis fiancé(e)._ / _Je suis marié(e)._ / _Je suis divorcé(e)._

I am single. / I am in love. / I am in a relationship. / I am engaged. / I am married. / I am divorced.

Well, well, well. It's not _exactly_ flirting, but they can't be that far now, can they?

"Hey guys!" John's head flies up, and closes his book just as Mary drops herself on the chair beside him. "What are you doing?"

"Studying," Greg grumbles, not looking up from his book. Greg's never liked Mary much, and John doesn't really understand why. It's not like he particularly liked Greg's ex either, but at least he made an effort.

"Oooh," Mary says, looking at John's things and not minding Greg at all, "you're studying French now?"

"Yeah, well, you told me that it's a great language, and I wanted to know more about—"

"How nice," she cuts in, "what are you learning now?"

John hesitates. "Well, next week will be small talk in a coffee shop, apparently."

Mary frowns. "Isn't it the third week of class already? You're still only on that chapter? I mean, when I went to France for my exchange, coffee shop small talk was on the first day, if you know what I mean." She chuckles, takes John's notebook from his hands and shuffles through the first few pages. "Gosh, you should proofread your notes, John, there are words I'm not even able to read in here. You might learn the wrong thing if you keep reading them like that."

"Don't they ever make mistakes in France?" Greg says, sarcastically, still not looking up from his book.

"Well, yes they do, because French, on a higher level — you wouldn't know, of course — is really something else. Wait until you learn all the verb tenses, you'll see."

"It's true," John chimes in, "when _Sherrrleuk_ speaks, I have no idea how he conjugates his verbs. It seems so random, sometimes."

"Oh my god, you have him as well? I have Advanced French workshops on Tuesdays with him. Of course, I understand most of what he says, but I'm sure he speaks purposefully fast for us not to understand him."

"Just say that you don't," Greg mumbles.

"What was that?" Mary asks, but Greg shrugs, unbothered. "Anyway, I think he's got a bit of a… a problem up there," she says, pointing her finger to her head. "You know."

John jerks his chin back. "No, actually, I don't."

"Come on, John, you've seen and heard the man. You'll admit that he's crazy. Last week he told me I didn't have to show off by bringing everywhere my aunt's stolen copy of _Les Misérables_. How he knew it was my aunt's, I have no idea, but I certainly did not steal it, she lent it to me for a while! And then, when I asked him to teach me the names of the planets in French, he said that it's superfluous knowledge from someone of my level, but I'm sure he wouldn't tell me because he doesn't _know_."

"I don't know, maybe he's right, it's not like you'll ever start doing small talk about the planets or something," John says, feeling somewhat defensive. Okay, Sherlock is a bit strange, but it doesn't mean anything.

"But it's the solar system, John! What if someone starts asking me about it and I don't even know how to pronounce the names of the planets?!"

John shrugs. Frankly, he doesn't care about this hypothetical scenario that much. If Mary wants to learn the planet's names, she can check on the Internet, after all.

"Anyway," she says, "there's a party at my place next Saturday night, I hope you'll be there?"

John eyes Greg, who shakes his head in Mary's back, slightly terrified. "Sure, we'll be there."

"All right, see you then," she adds, and disappears with a wink. "Cheerio!" 

"Bloody hell, John, you know that I have no clue what you see in her—"

"She's funny, okay, and she says things how they are."

"—But to drag me into this, that's a low blow."

"As if you've ever said no to a party before," John says, rolling his eyes.

Greg, laughing, throws an eraser at him.

 

***

 

" _Bon_ ," Sherlock says, " _puisque les jeux ont été un échec lamentable la semaine dernière, nous allons revenir à une approche plus classique. Je vois que vous avez appris des nouvelles phrases, alors aujourd'hui, vous allez faire la conversation deux par deux._ " [Okay, since playing games last week was a clear failure, we are coming back to a more classical approach. I see that you have learned new sentences, so today, you are going to make conversation in teams of two.]

Greg rakes his chair in order to face John.

" _Non, non,_ " Sherlock protests, " _vous discutez trop souvent avec la même personne, ce qui ne sera pas le cas dans la vraie vie. Il ne faut pas trop vous habituer. Variez les équipes, allez._ " [No, no, you talk too often with the same person, which won't be the case in real life. You can't get into that habit. Come on, make new teams.]

Everyone stares at him, a bit unsure. Really? It's already humiliating to talk with Greg, he doesn't need to show off his lack of skill to another person.

On the other side of the table, Sarah smiles at him. John is about to make a move when Sherlock interrupts them again. " _Vous attendez quoi? Bon, comme toujours, je vais faire tout le travail pour vous. Lestrade, tu te mets avec Hooper. Wilkes, avec Sawyer, et ah— Anderson n'est pas là, nous sommes impair… Bon, John, tu peux te mettre avec moi._ " [What are you waiting for? Okay, as always, I'll have to do your job for you. Lestrade, you go with Hooper. Wilkes, with Sawyer, and ah— Anderson isn't here, and we're an odd number… Okay, John, you can do it with me.]

John clears his throat, in the hope that Greg will be kind enough to explain what has just happened, but instead, everyone scatters to their partner, until John is left without one. He turns his head towards Sherlock, who is looking back expectantly. Aaaah. Okaaaay.

He gets his chair and comes to sit beside Sherlock, at the other end of the table. From what he can hear, the others around him are starting a conversation as if they were meeting for the first just, just as they learned that morning, simulating coffee shop experiences. Rather intense and personal ones.

"Bon _journ_ ," he tries. God, why is he paired off with the assistant? It can't get more humiliating than that. Or maybe Sherlock thinks that hearing someone say the words correctly might help him once and for all.

" _Bonjour. Moi c'est Sherlock. Comment tu t'appelles?_ " [Hi. I'm Sherlock. What's your name?] Sherlock says, not particularly slowly.

"Er—" for God's sake, he _knows_ this part! "Je _u_ _maple_ John. Commen _ttt_ tu t' _aple_?"

Sherlock stares at him. "Moi, c'est Sherlock," he repeats, and John wants to slap his forehead.

"Pardonnn, er— d'où _vin_ _tou_?" [Sorry, er— where are you from?]

" _Je viens de Provence, et toi, d'où viens-tu?_ " [I'm from Provence, and you, where are you from?]

"Je _vin_ _à_ … de Londres." [I am at… from London.]

" _Bien. Quel âge as-tu_?" [Good. How old are you?]

Okay, this is the new part. John braces himself. "J' _aye_ vingt-ettt- _oune_ ans." [I am twenty-one.] He swallows, and remembers that this is actually a conversation. "And you?! Eeh— ettt toi?"

" _Et_ toi," Sherlock corrects. Damn be French and it's superfluous letters. " _J'ai vingt ans._ " [I'm twenty.]

John shuffles through his notebook, reading the words with, again, no idea how to pronounce them. "Qu'es _ttt_ que _u_ t _ou_ et _ou_ die _sss_?" [What are you studying?]

This time, Sherlock smiles. Not an encouraging smile, no, more like he's trying not to laugh outright at John's face. "J'étudie en chimie. Et toi, _qu'est-ce que tu étudies_?" [I study chemistry. And you, what do you study?] He emphasizes the last few words. God, it sounds so easy when he tells them. And _sheemee_? Is that the French word for chemistry? Greg did say that he studies chemistry, right?

"J'étudiesss le médecin." [I study the doctor.]

" _La médecine_." [Medecine.]

"La medicine, yeah— oui."

Their conversation comes to a halt, and John can feel it's his turn to ask a question. He flips through the pages of his notebook, checking for something he missed this morning, but his brain is not cooperating. It's strangely aware that Sherlock's knee is slightly brushing against John's, and that they're closer than they've ever been. The thought makes heat rise up to his face. He concentrates on his notes, hoping it won't show too much.

" _Tu es célibataire_ ," [you're single,] Sherlock finally says, and it's not a question.

"Er—" John quickly checks his notes. He does remember what _célibataire_ means, but he never heard it like that, used with the second person and not as a question. It's a statement, but then, how does Sherlock know? " _Oui_ ," he says, because it's true. God, he wasn't wrong when he noticed that Sherlock is somehow able to read him. Whatever the language barrier may be, Sherlock understands him. Somehow. God, he isn't turning mad, is he?

" _Es-tu amoureux?_ " [Are you in love?] Sherlock presses on, and John jerks his chin back.

It's a bit tactless, really, not that he minds much, but this deviates from the _we're meeting for the first time in a coffee shop_ scenario. But again, they're supposed to practice the sentences they've learned, not that John thinks that anyone will be asking him that after talking for five minutes for the first time.

The problem is that he really does not know how to answer that question. Sure, there's Mary, who keeps flirting with him, whom he even kissed before the semester started, at one of her famous parties. But is he in love with her? He _could_ be. If they had started dating back then, after that kiss, and if they would have been together since, yeah, he thinks he could have been in love with her. But is he now?

Sherlock clears his throat.

What's the word for maybe, again? He doesn't even know. " _Non_ ," he says instead.

The world doesn't stop turning. There's no earthquake, no tsunami that takes them all to burry forever the words of his revelation. He just… isn't in love with anyone. Not even Mary.

" _Et… toi?_ " he asks Sherlock, who frowns at him. It _is_ a conversation, John wants to say, he doesn't need to appear so surprised that he's asking the questions back at him.

" _Aucun des deux_ ," [Neither,] Sherlock answers, ducking his head, his ears slightly red. John has no idea what any of that means.

 

***

 

The party, by every standard but John's, is a success. Mary's flat is big but still overcrowded, the music is some kind of techno-psycho nonsense, and John's head is getting heavy from the aroma of weed following him all around the place. He might have put up with it in either Greg or Mary's company, but neither of them is to be found.

A cup of cheap beer in hand, he navigates through the dancing crowd, trying to find anyone he knows. A few meters ahead, he distinguishes the silhouette of a tall bloke with curly hair. His gut contracts uncomfortably on itself, but when the man turns, John starts breathing again. Not Sherlock. Not that he would mind at all. He doesn't see him frequenting those kinds of parties, anyway. Not that he minds about that either. God, what's wrong with him? Sherlock doesn't seem to leave his mind, these past few days. Or weeks. Sure, he's strange and funny and mysterious, but John has never been obsessed like that with anybody before. And what if it would have been Sherlock, instead of this man? What would he have done, then?

"Wanna dance?" a random bloke offers him with a large grin, and John realizes he's been stuck on the same spot for over five minutes, between the dancing bodies.

He contemplates the idea for a second, and then wonders what the hell is wrong with him. He flees, without giving the bloke an answer.

God, this is the worst idea he's ever had. He'd rather be in bed right now, studying French. He's still trying to correctly pronounce all the sentences they've learned this week, and he didn't have the time to study ahead. He'll make a fool of himself, once more.

He walks down a corridor, just to get some air that is hopefully not contaminated by drugs of any kind, and props himself against a door.

That's when he hears it.

"Come on, fuck, that's good—"

" _Oh— putain, oh oui, oooh—_ "

Mary's voice. And a low, deep, French voice.

John slides against the wall down the corridor, feeling strangely out of his body, until his arm comes in contact with a cold surface. He turns, only to notice a pan of a glass wall, the kind that is too thick to let see anything other than general shapes and colours.

There it is, the outline of a bed, the two silhouettes on it, engaging in rather amorous activities. One small, with blond hair. One tall, with curly, brown curls.

John is too far away from his own senses to register the moans anymore, shock still high in his throat. That Mary would— well, that's maybe less of a surprise, really. He should be upset, really but his mind only supplies useless insults for having her let him on for weeks on end. It's not like they're together anyway, she can fuck whoever she likes…

But definitely not Sherlock.

Further down the corridor, he distinguishes the door he came through when he arrived.

In the end, he makes a run for it, but not in time, and throws up all over Mary's _Welcome_ carpet.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This ended in a bit of an angsty place, but I promise, we're coming back to the fluff very soon! Again, thank you for your comments, they motivate me so much, and it's always lovely to hear from you! <333


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a bit shorter, but a lot of realizations are made, even if they're not fully understood yet.

And then it was Monday afternoon, and John had still not left his bed. The sheets were disgusting from lying in them for two consecutive days, but he couldn't muster the strength in him to stand up and change them, his only trips consisted of going to the bathroom or to making, three times a day, a rather bland vanilla protein milkshake in his tiny kitchen.

Mary can fuck whoever she wants to, he kept on repeating to himself. Visibly, her derogatory comments about Sherlock's personality did not matter if he's great in bed. And of course, he would be. Still, he has a bit of trouble understanding why Sherlock would be with someone such as Mary, but maybe... well, maybe he saw in her what John had seen in her at the time. The problem remains: John doesn't care about Mary, at all, but then, why does he care about who _Sherlock_ fucks?

Sunday night, with the slight hope that his mood might get better, he finally plugged his computer in and put on _Skyfall_. Nothing like a good James Bond to change his mind a bit.

When Q appeared on the screen, John had gasped. He had forgotten about that part, specifically about the bit where Q looks exactly like an older version of Sherlock, with glasses. His hair, his eyes... the bloody fact that he's _also_ a genius. He bit on his lower lip and shoved the laptop away, curled up on his side, and slept.

Strange dreams occurred during that night. Strange dreams featuring Q, his whole being enveloped in a haze, every time a bit more like Sherlock, down to the milky and freckled skin that had been at some point under John's hands. The dream contributed to the ungodly state of the bed sheets, as John realised in the morning.

On Monday afternoon, his doorbell rings, and he finally gets out of bed.

After a long journey through the hallway of his flat, he discovers that Greg is standing outside his door.

"What the bloody hell, mate! Why aren't you answering my texts?" Greg shoots a look at John, up and down, and steps into the flat, an arm on the door as if John is about to block the way. "Okay, you clearly need to take a shower and… a change of pants."

John grumbles something he doesn't even know, and walks through his flat towards the small kitchen and bathroom. Greg follows him, opens the fridge, takes out a can of beer and pops it open, before he disposes of a half-molded banana that's been living on the counter for a few days now.

Surprisingly, the shower _does_ help. When John comes back into the kitchen, not exactly nicely dressed but wearing a hoodie and a pair of sweatpants, his mind already feels clearer.

"What's up?" Greg asks, still in his task of decontaminating the kitchen.

"Not much."

"Where have you been?"

John shrugs. "Here."

Greg stares at him as if he's crazy. _Is_ he crazy?

"What happened?" Greg asks.

"Nothing. Why should anything have happened?"

"Because you left the party early on Saturday and you won't answer my messages since. At first I thought you left with someone, but damn, I don't think it would have been passionate to the point that you'd forget to text me back for two days straight, miss French class, practice,  _and_ the workshop."

John frowns. "I haven't been with Mary."

"I know," Greg says, and John jerks his chin back. _How_ does he know? "I meant… I dunno, just… someone else."

"Who?"

"Anyone, really. Doesn't matter."

"Why would you think that I'd be with someone other than Mary, after leaving _her_ party?"

Greg opens the fridge again, and takes out a jar of yogurt that has been hosting a whole different type of bacteria. "Because Mary is a fucking bitch and you deserve to be with someone that gets you. There, finally, I've said it. Although," he adds, throwing away the yogurt, "I'm not so sure about that after seeing the state of this kitchen. Fucking hell. No one wants to be with a bloke who grows mold rather than plants, John."

"Sorry about that. I haven't cleaned since, er, this weekend."

Greg looks at him again, one of those kind, understanding looks that kill John every time. How is it possible that he still has a friend like Greg? After all this time?

"So, what happened?" Greg asks again, casually.

"I think I'll unregister from French class."

"Oh no! No, no, no! You can't do that to me _now_! I only did this because of you, there's no backing off now!"

"You know when Mary said she likes French?"

"Yeah?"

"Well, _French_ is a six-foot tall, posh, and apparently bloody amazing in bed." Her interest had been lying in the fact that Sherlock speaks perfect French. That's why she kept mentioning it to John, not specially wanting for him to learn the bloody language. God, he's been so stupid!

Greg winces. "Ah. You saw that."

"What? You knew?"

"Not before Saturday, no, but then Mary's friend walked in on them and made a scene — apparently, he has been dating them both behind their backs, so that caused quite a bit of drama. I wondered if that was why you wouldn't text me, but I was pretty sure you left before all that happened."

"Yeah, um, I did, but I saw them too, before that."

Greg makes a face. "Ah, shit mate, I'm sorry."

"Don't be. You're right, she's a bitch. And I hate him."

"I never had a good feeling about him, to be honest," Greg says, sitting down at the counter. "He tried to sell me weed, yesterday. That was pretty dumb."

John gapes. Everyone knows that Greg doesn't come close to drugs, even with a ten-foot pole. But that's not the only thing that surprises him. "He talked to you? Like… in English?"

"Well, yeah. Always needs to show off his stupid accent, as if we don't know already he's doing that bloody exchange."

"God, he never spoke English to _me_."

Greg frowns, ruffling his hair with one hand. "What the hell are you talking about? He asked you a month ago at that other party if you've ever travelled outside of England."

"What the hell are _you_ talking about?" Sherlock has never asked him such a thing. And certainly not at a party. And certainly not in English. John didn't even know that he could speak it.

" _Hello John, are you all in there?_ " Greg tries, shocked. "Tom? Doesn't ring a bell? French exchange student for the year and Mary's… something?"

"I'm talking about Sherrrleuuuk!"

"Why would you— Oh god _._ You thought it was _Sherlock_ ," Greg lets out, eyes big, as if finally realising something. "Err, no, I get that they look a bit alike, but it was definitely Tom with Mary, on Saturday."

John hits his forehead with his palm. The bloke who looked like Sherlock on the dance floor. It was Tom, it was Tom all along, and it was Tom with Mary, which means, which means— Sherlock has never slept with Mary. Oh God. John wants to laugh.

"God, no, I was definitely talking about Tom," Greg says. "I don't see Sherlock having any interest in Mary, like ever, since… well, you _know_. But wait, the best thing, shows you that karma is a bitch, is that someone threw up all over Mary's carpet!"

On that, Greg starts to laugh, and why the hell not, John joins him.

 

***

 

Wednesday morning, John puts on the sweatpants again, because he has to face the outside world one day or another. And the best would be today, since he has a cardio test that he is not ready for.

He still has a few hours of studying left before the exam, and so he heads down on campus, planning to stop at his usual coffee place. He gets through the small park first, and when the coffee shop's bay window comes into view, he stops right in his tracks: Sherlock is sitting at one of the tables, his side to the window, drumming his fingers on the table. Waiting. For his date, or something like that, John guesses.

He looks like he always does, superior and unbothered, but this time, he is wearing a big, dramatic black coat, and a scarf is lying on the banquette seat just beside his thigh. Not wanting to go in there, especially since he missed yesterday's workshop and is currently dressed like a hobo, John can't help but stand and stare. He stares at Sherlock's fingers again. No, not entirely unbothered, he realises, but nervous. Nervous about a first date, maybe? God, John can't imagine him being nervous about anything. And to say that he thought less than twenty-fours hours ago that Sherlock was getting a leg-over at a crowded party. How could he have misjudged Sherlock that hard?

After a few minutes, just as Sherlock seems to be getting impatient (he picked up his phone again for the third time, checking something), John wonders if he should go in. Order a coffee, pretend to notice him by accident, sit down and talk about nothing in particular. How would Sherlock react? He probably wouldn't be very happy to see a random student acknowledge him outside of the workshops, especially since John isn't a very good one. He'd be bothered by John's presence, unable to leave politely. God, maybe he would interrupt the beginning of a date. No, he can't go in.

Just as he is about to leave in search for another place, John recognises someone else: Molly. Frowning, he witnesses as she enters the shop, sees Sherlock, and sits down in front of him. God, is he dating Molly now? Of all people?

For John's satisfaction, Sherlock looks bothered by her materializing in front of him. They're talking, but John can't understand a thing since he's still on the other side of the street. Molly has always been better in French than him, and has been making amazing progress since the beginning of the semester, and so it's clear that she is able to sustain a somewhat meaningful conversation in French by this point. She is talking rather animatedly, as if trying to make a point, and Sherlock is sitting back, staring at his fingers still splayed on the table.

The whole conversation lasts less than five minutes. At some point, Molly gets up, declares a final thing and Sherlock nods. He does not look particularly pleased, but not as bothered as he was at the start.

This did not look like a date, or if so, one that went wrong from the start.

Just as she is leaving, John hides himself behind a tree. He checks the shop again, wondering if Sherlock is still in — he might try his luck and go talk to him as well, but when he looks again, Sherlock is gone. At least he can get his coffee, now.

Sighing, he whips his mobile out of his pocket, composing Greg's number.

"Hey. Everything all right?" Greg asks. John doesn't phone very often.

"Yeah, I was wondering if you were doing something tonight?"

"Actually, yes, I have something."

John's eyebrows pop up. "Really? With whom?"

"Er— you know Molly, from the workshops?"

"Yes…" John starts, then frowns. "That's weird. I just saw her coming out of a coffee shop."

"Okay?"

"She was talking to Sherlock," he says.

"Ah, er— um. Really?"

"Yeah, for real. This wasn't a date, was it?"

Greg laughs. "God no, that thing's in the past, now."

"Wonder what they were talking about, then."

"Dunno."

"Anyway, really, you're dating her, now?" he asks, genuinely interested. Molly is a nice girl. Intelligent. Observant. Good student. Pretty. Yeah, he does see Greg with her, why not?

"I wouldn't say we're dating, she just asked me…"

"Yeah?"

"If I'd be interested in joining a French conversation group."

John rolls his eyes. "And of how many people is that group composed of?"

"Just her and I… I guess."

" _Why would I want to join a conversation group? I only know like… three sentences,_ " John recites back to Greg with a silly voice. "You suck, mate. Have fun."

He can still hear Greg's laugh when he unceremoniously ends the call.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're having our best French assistant Sherlock back in next chapter! And I promise, from this point on, the fic is mostly fluffy. :) As always, thank you for your lovely comments! <333


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *chants* UST, UST, UST, UST! (or maybe more like, romantic tension? URT?)
> 
> If things go according to plan, we have three chapters left, friends!  
> Sorry if there are any mistakes in there, I wrote this pretty quickly this morning because I too need to study for exams!  
> And yes, the "being alone with the language assistant during a workshop" totally happened to me, and it was quite fun. We were two to play a multiple-player game. Heh.

 

In the end, Greg convinced him not to drop the class even though he missed one week. Instead of partying, John spent the weekend studying all the new stuff he had missed, without anyone to tell him how to correctly pronounce the words. They were now studying jobs, professions and hobbies, along with some new verbs John did not know about.

Monday rolled around the corner pretty quickly, and after a class he could barely follow, he finds himself waiting in front of Sherlock's office. Alone.

He knows that Greg can't make it because he's studying for an exam instead, but the other should be there. Except… It's the fifth week of workshops, and that means that most of his colleagues got the bonus 2% given by attending four workshops. Okay, but don't these people actually care about learning stuff and not only getting bonus points?

Apparently not, since he's standing there alone, like an idiot.

It's two minutes past the usual time the workshops start when John clears his throat, braces himself and pushes the door open, and is greeted with the strange view of Sherlock on a chair, his nose nearly brushing the blackboard as he writes some kind of chemical equation. The blackboard is full of those, along with molecule drawings and other complicated stuff John can't make any sense of.

"Sherrrleuuuk?"

Sherlock nearly falls off the chair. "John?!" Has he not seen him enter the room?

"Err— _salo_." [John tries "salut", the informal greeting, but it sounds like "salaud", which means "whore" in the masculine form]

Sherlock shakes his head, biting his lower lip. It seems to be his usual reaction when confronted with John's French. He jumps off the chair, two feet at the time. God, he's got no respect for any of the furniture here, John thinks, remember how he had his feet on his desk a few weeks ago.

" _Je ne pensais pas que tu allais revenir. En fait, j'avais estimé que personne n'allait venir aujourd'hui puisque les examens se rapprochent et qu'ils ont déjà complété les quatre ateliers. Sauf pour toi et Anderson, bien évidemment, mais si mon hypothèse est correcte, Anderson s'est carrément désinscrit du cours_ ," he says, very quickly, and John doesn't understand a word. " _Enfin, tu peux t'asseoir_." [I didn't think you'd come back. In fact, I estimated that nobody would show today because exams are coming soon and people already have done the four workshops. Except for you and Anderson, of course, but if my hypothesis is correct, Anderson dropped the class. Well, you can sit down.]

That last part, John understands, and so he sits down at the table in the center of the office. He looks around, as Sherlock goes around his own desk, and John can't help but for his knee to jerk up and down under the table. Maybe he shouldn't have shown up, since Sherlock clearly did not think anyone would, and was busy with something else. But it's not like John can't stand up now, excuse himself and just flee the room. No, he'll have to survive the next hour, _somehow_.

" _J'ai un jeuuu_ ," Sherlock says, with a silly voice. [I have a gaaaame.] He takes something on his desk, comes around the table again, and squeezes himself between John's chair and the wall. " _Euh, pardon_ ," [sorry,] he says, and John scoots his chair forward, the table uncomfortably sticking in his belly. God, can this room _be_ any smaller?

Once he's on the other side, Sherlock slams a sheet on the table, along with a die and some pions, little coloured balls that John guesses are from a molecular structure kit. On the sheet, a board has been drawn by hand and it looks like it has been done in no less than two minutes. John can see different little drawings, like a house, or what looks to be a football.

" _Le principe est simple_ ," Sherlock says, dropping himself on the chair next to John. " _Il faut lancer le dé,_ " he says, picking up the dice. " _Et se déplacer sur la case désignée. Puis, il faut formuler une phrase qui convienne avec le dessin illustré sur la case._ " [It's simple. You have to throw the dice and move to the designated space on the board. Then, you have to make up a sentence that works with the drawing that's in the space you're on.]

John clears his throat, unsure. Sherlock rolls his eyes, throws the dice, and advances forward three spaces, on the little house drawing. " _J'habite à Londres_. _À toi._ " [I live in London. Your turn.]

Slightly sweating now, John picks up the dice, throws it, and moves five spaces forward, on what seems to be a building drawing, with _Université_ written under it.

" _J'étudiessss le médecine._ " He smiles to himself, happy that he actually remembered that.

" _La médecine_ ," Sherlock corrects. He plays again, landing on a vague drawing of a cat. " _Je n'ai pas d'animaux._ " [I don't have pets.]

Oh God, that's right, they've seen the negation not long ago. John plays, landing on a space with no drawing, but _Travail_ written on it. "Err— je _u_ n'a _ye_ d _eu_ trava _ïïïlll_." [I don't have a job.]

"Je n'ai _pas_ de _travail_ ," Sherlock corrects. Fuckin hell, why does French need to have two negation words when it could only use one? This doesn't make any sense! "Essaie encore." [Try again.]

"Je _u_ n'a _ye_ pas de _u_ travail," John tries, and Sherlock nods. " _Et toi?_ " [And you?]

Sherlock looks up, surprised. Okay, this is not in the rules of the game, but it's not wrong to make conversation, is it? Instead of answering, Sherlock leans back and opens his hands, as if to designate his whole office.

"Oh, that's right," John mumbles to himself. Why does his ability to think properly vanishes as soon as he steps into this office. This is Sherlock's job, for God's sake.

Not minding John's awkwardness — Sherlock never minds, he's the coolest, most detached person John has ever met — Sherlock proceeds, and lands on the _Université_ space. " _J'étudie la chimie_." [I study chemistry.]

That, John understands. He already knew, of course, and it makes only sense with all the equations on the board. John nods, and reaches for the dice — it's a bit far away, on Sherlock's side, and before he can do anything, Sherlock leans over the table to fetch it. When he hands it to John, their fingers brush.

John's knee starts bouncing again. Trying to concentrate on the game, he throws the dice again, and lands on the space depicting food. "J'aim _eu_ , er— fish & chips?" [I like fish & chips.]

Sherlock rolls his eyes again, probably judging how inherently English John is. In all honesty, John chose fish and chips only not to have to pronounce food in French.

" _J'aime faire des expériences scientifiques_ ," [I like doing scientific experiments,] Sherlock says, after landing on the football space, which John guesses is for hobbies. Wait. Did Sherlock say that his hobby is _experimenting_? " _Et toi?_ " Sherlock asks, before John can say anything.

"Er, j'aimeu le _rugby_ ," he says, not knowing how to say rugby in French.

" _Rugby_ ," Sherlock corrects, with his silly accent.

"Rugby," John tries again. Honestly, they're saying the exact same thing!

" _Non, non, non, tu ne prononces pas tes r correctement. Encore une fois: rrrugby._ " [No, no, no, you don't pronounce your r's correctly. Again: rrrugby.]

"Rrrugby."

Sherlock scoots forward, and without a word, puts a finger under John's chin, just where it meets his neck, in front of his Adam's apple. " _Tes r doivent venir de là. Pas d'en dessous de ta langue._ " [Your r's need to come from here. Not from under your tongue.]

John's mind becomes frustratingly blank. Sherlock's face is only a few centimeters in front of him, closer than ever before. He can see every detail of his skin, the freckle above his eyebrow, the depth of his blue eyes— wait, what were they talking about, again?

"John? _Rugby?_ "

"Rrrrrrrugby." John tries to pronounce the r from where Sherlock's finger is uncomfortably pushing in his chin, without much success.

" _Essaie juste le r. Rrrrrr._ " [Try only to do the r. Rrrrr.]

"Rrrrrrrrrrr."

"Non, _rrrrrrrrrr_."

"Rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr." Is that still not okay?

"Allez, John, concentres-toi. _Rrrrrrrrr_." [Come on, John, concentrate.]

"RRRRRRRR."

"Non! _Rrrrrrrrrr_!"

"RRRR _rrr_ R _rrr_ R _rr_."

"Presque! _Rrrrrrrrrr_." [Nearly!]

"RR _rrrrrrr_ RRRR _rrrrrr_."

That's when the door decides to fling open. Sherlock stands up jerkily, turning on himself, and nearly pushes John off his chair. Mrs Bouchard, the French teacher, is looking at them, her eyebrows disappearing behind her fringe. Well, she just walked in on two young men growling at each other, so that's not a surprising reaction.

She clears her throat, looking at Sherlock.

" _J'ai toujours su que tu avais des méthodes peu orthodoxes, Sherlock, mais là, ça dépasse mes attentes._ " John doesn't get any word of what she's saying, but she's now smiling, as if she just entered on a very sweet situation. Wait. Was it? _Are they_? " _Enfin, je voulais juste te prévenir que l'atelier de demain devra comporter le chapitre 4 et 5 parce que nous avons pris un peu d'avance lors du dernier cours._ " [I always knew you had unorthodox methods, Sherlock, but that definitely surpasses what I thought initially. Anyway, I only wanted to say that tomorrow's workshop will have to be on chapters 4 and 5 since we got a bit ahead last class.]

" _D'accord_ ," [okay,] Sherlock says, sternly.

" _Ah, j'allais oublier. J'ai aussi trouvé un remplaçant pour toi, qui prendra ta place après la semaine d'examens. Tu seras officiellement relevé de tes fonctions bientôt._ " [Ah, I nearly forgot. I found you a substitute that will take your place after the exams week. You'll soon officially be dismissed from this job.]

" _Dieu merci._ " [Thank God.]

John feels like he's witnessing some kind of quick tennis match, with no idea who's winning and who's losing.

" _D'ici là, je m'attends à ce que tu continues ton travail comme avant, et que tu suives le plan qui a été fait par le dernier élève qui travaillait ici. C'est compris?_ " [But before that happens, I'm still expecting that you'll continue your work like before, and that you stick to the plan made by the last student that worked here. Is that understood?]

" _Oui, oui,_ " Sherlock says, shaking his hand as to dismiss her. God, she seems friendly towards him, but John would never talk like that towards a woman like Mrs Bouchard. She's highly competent but, well… French and severe. Instead of answering, she only smiles, and closes the door behind her.

Sherlock groans, ruffling through his hair with both hands. Forgetting the game altogether, he picks up the sheet of paper from the table and slams it on his desk. He takes another sheet, and hands it to John. This time, it isn't a game, but a few printed sentences with blanks to fill.

" _Travaille là-dessus. Il faut que tu utilises la négation. Tu me diras quand tu auras fini._ " [Work on this. You have to use the negation. Tell me when you're done.]

Nodding, John picks up the sheet, takes a pen out, and starts working. It's not the easiest task in the world, especially since he missed the class on negations. He's trying to remember when to use " _ne_ ", and when to use " _n'_ ", when he feels Sherlock looking at him. As always, he's sitting behind his desk with his feet up on it, but instead of closing his eyes and thinking, he's looking at John. That always used to freak him out a bit, but this time, John can't help but feel smug that he's suddenly considered an object of interest. He fills in the last few blanks, and hands the sheet to Sherlock.

It takes him under thirty seconds to correct it, while John looks at him, worried. Has he done it well? When Sherlock hands him back the assignment, John is relieved: there are only a few red marks. He did fairly well.

" _Tes compétences écrites sont plutôt bonnes. Il faut cependant que tu développes tes compétences à l'oral._ " [Your writing skills are all right. You definitely need to work on your oral skills, though.]

"That's the first time anybody tells me that."

It takes him a second to realize what he just said, and the smug smile leaves his face. What if Sherlock, somehow, understood him? Oh God, probably not the words, but even the tone implies—

Sherlock's eyebrows rise slightly. John is pretty sure he is going to get kick out of the office, but that's before Sherlock pinches his lips together and starts laughing.

John can't help but to start laughing too, seeing how Sherlock is trying hard not to lose it, a fist in front of his mouth.

" _Pardon, pardon_ ," John says, hoping it will be enough not to make things awkward between them.

It takes another minute for Sherlock to calm down. God, his laugh is everything, John thinks. He's never seen him like that, with anyone else. He'll definitely want to try saying something funny again, another time, if that's Sherlock's reaction every time.

" _Ça va_ ," [it's fine,] Sherlock says, waving his hand. He checks his watch. " _Ah, c'est déjà la fin de l'atelier_."

John checks the clock behind him, and understands. He gets up and fetches his bag. Just when he's about to leave the room, Sherlock stands up.

"John?"

" _Oui?_ "

Sherlock steps closer to him. What's happening? " _Er— il y a le Lexi Cinéma qui programme un visionnement de film francophone une fois par semaine. Madame Bouchard m'a demandé d'envoyer un e-mail à tous les étudiants, mais il y a eu une erreur dans le système et je n'arrive pas à retrouver les listes. Enfin, je voulais juste te prévenir que si tu peux venir, c'est une excellente situation pour pratiquer ton français tout en se divertissant. Leur prochaine représentation en français est ce vendredi, à huit heures._ " [Er— there's the Lexi Cinema that does francophone movies one per week. Mrs Bouchard asked me to send an email about that to all the students, but there was an error in the system and I can't find the email lists. Anyway, I wanted to tell you that if you can come, it's an excellent situation to practice your French while having fun. Their next movie in French is this Friday, at eight.]

John stares at him, unsure if he understood everything, judging how fast Sherlock was speaking, as if he wanted to get it all out before he could change his mind in the middle of his little speech. Something of an error in the email system? Something about a movie?

Sherlock sighs. " _Film. En. Français_ ," [Movie. In. French,] he says, very slowly. " _Lexi. Cinema. Vendredi. 8 heures_ ," [Lexi. Cinema. Friday. 8 o'clock,] he adds, putting eight fingers in front of John's face.

"Okay, er— oui, okay," John says, because he doesn't know how to say _I'll look it up._

Sherlock offers him a very weak smile, and closes the door on him.

 

***

 

Friday comes more quickly than anticipated, and before he knows, John is standing in front of the Lexi Cinema, wondering what he's doing here in the first place. It takes him a minute, but he finally spots Sherlock beside the entry hall. He's wearing that black coat he had on him the other day, at the coffee shop, along with the blue scarf around his neck. He seems slightly nervous, glancing around him while tapping away something on his phone.

"Sherrrleuuuk!" John shouts, raising his hand.

Sherlock sees him, and drops his phone in his coat pocket. "Hey," he says.

John stops in his tracks, trying to remember the little speech he has prepared. "Je _u_ su _ïïïsss_ content _e_ d _eu_ t _eu_ v _oeeeer._ J _eu_ n'étai _ssss_ _souur_ d _eu_ venirrrr mai _sss_ j'aim _eu_ les _films._ J'espèr _eu_ qu _eu_ l _eu_ _problem_ d _eu_ emails est travail main…t _euuu_ nant. Er— anyway, er, _salo_." [I am happy (feminine form) to see you. I was not sure if I come but I like movies. I hope that the email problem is working now. Er— anyway, er, salut (again, pronounced like "salaud".)]

"Lovely, but you really should stop saying salaud, unless you really are trying to say that I'm a whore."

"Oh God, that's not at all what I— _wait_!" John gapes. "You speak English."

"Wonderful observation, John."

"But… how?"

"Because I _am_ English?"

John shakes his head. This is a trick. This must be a trick, somehow. "But you also speak French!"

"There's also something called _bi-lin-gu-al peo-ple_."

John hits his palm to his forehead. "Oh my god, I can't believe I spend five weeks humiliating myself in French when you speak perfect English!"

"Yes, that was the plan. Students would have relied too much on that fact if they knew I could speak English, and therefore not learn anything at all."

John's eyebrows pop up. "So you're saying that you deployed your little strategy because you actually care about our education?" he says, doubtful.

Sherlock shrugs. "To be honest, it was mostly so you could keep saying my name with that stupid accent."

"Oh my god," John repeats. " _Sherlock_. Sherlock _Holmes_."

"I prefer _Sherrrrleuuuuk_."

"Shut up!" John punches Sherlock's arm, lightly. "I can't believe it. You're English."

Sherlock smiles. "How many times do you need to repeat it for that fact to sink in?"

"Oh my god."

"Yes."

They stare at each other, smiling. "Well, your secret's out, now."

"I do believe that you're not as idiotic as the others, so you'll be able to _keep it_ a secret."

"Sure," John says. God, he can't stop smiling. "So, what about that movie?"

Sherlock looks up, as if suddenly remembering that they're supposed to go in. "Yes, let's go."

"HEY GUYS!"

They both turn on their heels, watching as Greg runs up to them. "Sorry, God, I thought I wouldn't make it in time," he says to John, smiling.

Sherlock frowns. "What exactly are you doing here?"

"Well, John's told me about your email problem-thing, and so we went around and told all the people from class we could find about the movie. Molly couldn't make it, sorry," he adds, "but here I am!" He opens his hands, triumphantly. "Wait, you speak English?" he asks Sherlock.

Sherlock shrugs. John can't help but notice how he changed when Greg appeared, popping his collar up and nearly disappearing behind it. "Well, I doubt we'll be joined by thirty other students at this hour, so let's go," he says, coldly, and gets inside, not waiting for either John or Greg.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John is, in fact, entirely incapable of taking a clue.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go, a small chapter, but an important one! Notice that there's a chapter count, now, we're getting close to the end!

 

The movie is… interesting, to say the least. The actors are speaking a whole other type of French John has never heard before, and if he entered the theatre thinking that he might understand a few words, he is completely lost after the first few minutes. Just before entering, Sherlock had said that the movie is called _I Killed my Mother_ , and John thought it would be some kind of interesting but messed-up thriller. Which confused him, because he thought Sherlock would be the type to send them to a very boring black-and-white French romance.

The movie was neither. If John had to choose a word to describe it, it would be _gay_. The movie is, very, very, very gay.

He likes it, though. He can understand most scenes going by the actor's expressions, even if he can't exactly understand the words. From time to time, he glances at Sherlock, on his left, whose eyes are riveted on the screen. He hasn't taken off his coat, which is bulking at his shoulders, and looks a bit like a sulking child. Greg, on John's right, spent the first fifteen minutes of the movie buying popcorn, and sat down reluctantly beside John when he waved at him, showing the place that they reserved him. Now, although he looks interested by the movie, it also seems like he'd like to be anywhere else in the world.

John's attention returns to the screen. No mothers are killed. Instead, two — objectively hot — actors are sharing a rather artistic sex scene. John wonders if Sherlock knew what the movie was about before he chose it. God, he can't imagine the class's reaction if only they had come along. They already talk enough in the assistant's back.

The movie ends, and there are back outside again. "All right, this was nice," John says, a bit awkwardly. Why is this awkward? "Err— I'll be on my way, then. I live over there." He points one end of the street.

"Me too," Sherlock promptly answers.

"I'm going in the other direction," Greg chimes in.

John frowns. "Greg, your flat is _also_ over there."

"Yeah, but I know a short cut."

"Oh really? Tell us!"

"Can't you let this drop?" Greg says, shaking his head. "Fine, I was going to Molly's place."

"Doesn't she live near the campus? That's also over there."

"John!" Greg grits out. "We're meeting at a coffee shop, okay?"

John shrugs. "All right, all right, don't get aggressive on me, Jesus. Let's go, then," he says to Sherlock, who follows him as they leave Greg behind. "Have fun!" he adds, waving a hand in the air in Greg's general direction.

They walk for a few minutes in total silence, contrasting with the various groups of university students they pass on the pavement, laughing and shouting and getting ready for a night of partying. John isn't sure what he's supposed to say, but Sherlock says nothing as well — maybe he doesn't want to talk. He wouldn't even be sure what to talk about, he literally knows nothing about Sherlock.

Okay, a few things, maybe, if what he said during the workshops is true. He lives in London, he comes from Provence, he speaks fluently French _and_ English, he studies chemistry, he doesn't have any pets and his hobby is _experimenting_. Oh, and he likes gay, artistic movies. Or maybe he chose it randomly, because it was the only French movie of the week at that theatre.

"You enjoyed the movie," Sherlock says, just as they're passing a set of purple neon. There is nobody in front, or behind them, and the silence was getting a bit claustrophobic.

"How did you know that?"

"I didn't know, I deduced it."

John smiles. "I was right then."

"What about?"

"When I _deduced_ that you were some kind of genius." He glances at Sherlock, and notices that he is smiling in the collar of his coat. "Yeah, I liked the movie. I didn't understand a thing they were saying, though."

"Because it's from Québec. The accent is different, and harder to get if you have only been in contact with French from France. I wouldn't be too distraught if I were you, even some French people require subtitles when they watch a québécois movie."

"Is that your way of saying that you also missed some stuff?"

"I never said such a thing," Sherlock answers, although it's with playful tone. So he _did_ _not_ fully understand everything that has been said, as well. "It's the third time I've seen it. Xavier Dolan's movies are internationally recognised, now but he wrote this one when he was sixteen."

"Really? That's… young." God, John's talents when he was sixteen included partying and drinking too much.

"Yes. He recruited the actors himself, and as you know, played the protagonist. He's won awards at Cannes since, for his other movies. Although I think this one is my favourite. You can see a few mistakes here and there, as it was his debut, but I also feel like it's the most honest of his movies."

John nods, unsure what to say. He never knew that Sherlock had an interest in movies to the point of knowing such details about one particular director.

He is still thinking hard about what to say next, when he realises that he's in front of his flat. "Er— that's me," he tells Sherlock, who stops walking.

"Ah."

There's a silence between them, and John feels like it's his turn to say something. "Well, this was nice. I'm sorry no one else showed up, though. They really don't take this seriously enough."

Sherlock steps from one foot, to the other.

"See you on Monday?" John asks.

"John, you don't have to come to the workshops anymore, you already have all your points."

"No but I feel like I still need the extra work," he insists.

Sherlock smiles. "That's true."

"Oi, wanker! See you on Monday, then."

"Good night, John," Sherlock says, just as John is climbing the few steps to open the front door.

He goes up the steps two by two, reminiscing the conversation that just happened. He could feel that Sherlock was… disappointed, somehow. Like something more should have happened downstairs. But… what?

Someone shouts something outside, and John gets to his window, his heart pounding in his chest. When he looks down, he only sees a few drunk students singing the latest hit. But what catches his attention is Sherlock's silhouette, now way down the road… in the direction they just came from.

John's phone rings in his pocket, and he nearly jumps out of his skin from the surprise. He takes it out of his jeans, and checks: it's Greg calling.

He answers the call. "Hey. Everything okay?"

"Why didn't you tell me that this was a date?!"

John frowns. "What?"

"Oh my god, John, this was the worst third-wheeling situation _ever_!"

"Why are you saying that? This wasn't a date."

"John," Greg says, slowly, as if he's particularly dumb or something. "You told me that Sherlock _asked you_ to tell the class to come to the movie because of the problem with the emails."

"Yeah?"

"What did he tell you, _ex-ac-tly_?"

John tries to remember the exact words. "I dunno. Something about a problem with the emails not working, so that's why he asked in person if I wanted to come to the movie."

Greg sighs. "When did he tell you to ask the others about it?"

"I— oh, _shit_." Oh my god. Oh my god. Everything made sense, suddenly. Sherlock asking him in person. Sherlock sulking at Greg's presence at the movie. Sherlock wanting to walk back with John. The movie— the movie! The very, very gay movie they just saw… "Oh my god, oh my god, that was a _date_!"

"Welcome to this conversation, John."

"I— oh god. He— he didn't make it clear he was asking _that_."

"We're talking about Sherlock, John, of course, he didn't."

"Why do you say that?"

"Have you seen the man? It's clear he's entirely new at this, for God's sake. Not that you were particularly quick with getting it yourself, but… Did something happen after I left you?"

"No, not really. We walked to my flat, talked about the movie, and then I got inside."

"Hmm, I see. Nothing that leaves him with much hope."

John bites on his lower lip. He hasn't seen this one coming. "What should I do?"

"I don't know, John, what do you _want to do_?"

"I don't know."

A beat. "Well… do you want to see him again?"

"I don't know."

"Which would be fine, by the way."

He breathes in, and out. "I know it would be fine," John counters.

"Good," Greg says, still hesitating. "I want to make sure that… you know it's fine. With me. If it's one or… the other. Or neither. Or both. It's all fine."

"I know— I _don't_ know."

"Okay, okay, well, think about it. If ever you want to do something about it, it's not like the situation's entirely hopeless."

John grunts, unconvinced. "Yeah, thanks, Greg."

"Okay," Greg says, because he always knows instinctively when he's been dismissed. "Night. Call me if you need anything."

"Right. Bye."

John puts the phone down on the table, and ruffles his hair with one hand. God. What should he do? It's not like he has done any of this before, with a man. He's entirely clueless, just as this whole date-but-not-a-date has shown. The truth is that he likes Sherlock. The man's funny, clever, and yes, objectively good looking.

He closes his eyes for a second, remembering the dream he had not so long ago, after the party. Would his subconscious be _that_ explicit if it isn't something he wanted?

He sits down at the table. In all honestly, this scares him. He has no idea what he's supposed to do, how this usually goes. Whatever Greg has said about it not being hopeless, John isn't so sure about that. Sherlock has probably understood tonight that John is a lost cause.

Unless… Unless John does something to prove him otherwise. But… what?

It's only after a sleepless night, when he opens his French notebook, that everything in his brain finally clicks together. His eyes are reading over and over the next assignment: they need to find a song, and perform it in class, not this week but the next one. Mrs Bouchard had specifically said that they could practise it at the next workshop, in preparation for their little presentation. The project had started the week John had missed class, and therefore, he had no partner, as Greg chose to be with Molly instead. That means that he can choose his own song. The right song.

The right song to sing at the workshop, to tell Sherlock that maybe everything is not as hopeless as it seems.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DUH DUH DUH DUUUH! ;)


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My exams are done! My German oral exam when as well as John's French oral exam would go in this fic. Which means not very much. Heh! More reasons to go to workshops. ;) 
> 
> Short chapter today, but oh, an important one!

 

The French like their big, dramatic gestures, right? John surely hopes so, as he's walking down the corridor to Sherlock's office. Today, the teacher made it quite clear that attending the workshop would be a good idea in order to practice presenting their songs for next week. Which means that there will be an audience for John. Well, maybe it's better that way, it would have been a tad creepy if they would have been alone and he had started singing at a not-very interested Sherlock. Or maybe it's not, because John's singing is not something he would call good, and singing badly in a language he pronounces badly in front of a crowd might be the most humiliating experience of all time.

He should be fine, he tells himself. He practised the whole week. Literally. When his neighbours would start yelling at him in return, John would retreat to the shower to keep on singing. He did not choose the easiest song, either, but, well, he won't half-ass this. Not this time. For Sherlock. Right.

He steps into the small office, the first to arrive. "Hey Sherlock," he says, finally pronouncing his name in a _normal_ way.

Sherlock smiles, although it seems a bit forced. " _Bonjour, John. Tu peux t'asseoir._ " [Hi John. You can sit down.]

John smiles in return, and sits down, pulling his two bags with him. He's not sure what to say, how to apologise about being slow and not understanding that Sherlock had invited him on a date. But how to say that in French?

"Je _u_ —"

Sherlock raises his head, but they're interrupted as Wilkes enters the room, followed by Sarah and a friend, and then Greg and Molly. John looks down at his lap, waiting for the others to sit down and for the chatter to end. Once he's beside him, Greg elbows him, and gives him a pointed look. Their last conversation was over the phone on Saturday night, as Greg was urging him to do something about Sherlock. John told him he was working on it. He didn't tell him _exactly_ what he was working on, because Greg would have laughed. Or probably suggested an easier way to make Sherlock forgive him, like inviting him for a coffee or something like that. But it's Sherlock. He can't _just_ invite him for coffee.

John only answers with a shrug, and looks up when Sherlock starts talking. " _Bonjour à tous. Madame Bouchard m'a prévenu que vous travaillez sur un projet de chanson, que vous allez présenter la semaine prochaine. Vous avez donc l'occasion aujourd'hui de faire une générale pour vous préparer. Pour votre plus grand malheur et pour le mien. Enfin. J'espère que vous avez amené votre musique, personne n'utilise mon ordinateur. Vous trouveriez un moyen de tout faire sauter rien qu'en le touchant._ " [Hi everyone. Mrs Bouchard told me that you are working on a song project, which you are presenting next week. Today, you have the occasion to practise it to prepare yourselves. Quite unfortunate, for you as well as for me. Anyway. I hope you brought your own music, nobody touches my laptop. You'd find a way of breaking everything only by touching it.]

Nobody moves.

" _Allez_ ," [let's go,] Sherlock urges them with a wave of his hand. " _Hooper et Lestrade, vous commencez._ " [Hooper and Lestrade, you start.]

John smiles to Greg, who stands up, a bit unsure. Molly gets the music from her phone and puts it on the table. "All right," Greg starts, before he clears his throat. "Nous pr _ay_ sentons une chanson de Mika. Err—" [We are presenting a song from Mika. Err—]

"Elle s'appelle _Grace Kelly_ ," [It's called Grace Kelly,] Molly concludes.

She presses on play, and they start singing. The song is too high-pitched for Greg and way too fast for them to be able to pronounce the words properly, but they perform a cute little karaoke duo, faking microphones and looking at each other. John cheers, and assures Greg that it was great when he comes to sit back at his place.

Next, Sarah and her friend perform some sort of dramatic song which might or might not be from Céline Dion, John wouldn't know, and they're quite good too. God, he's really going to make a fool of himself, isn't he?

After that, Wilkes, without Anderson as his usual partner, sings something that vaguely sounds like a Stromae song. John can't understand a thing, but he doubts it's because of _his_ lack of French skills.

A bit re-energised after this poor performance, he stands up when he understands that it's finally his turn. He gets one of his bags, shaped like a tennis racquet, and unzips it to reveal a ukulele.

He can feel Greg frowning in his back as he sits down again. Yeah, okay, he might have learned this week a few chords on the ukulele as well, but grand gesture means _grand_ , doesn't it? Mike was okay with teaching him, and lending him the instrument for his little show. And the song is only a few different chords, not that John chose it for its easiness.

No, John chose it after thinking about it for forty-eight hours straight. He went through whole Youtube sections, discovered bands, wondering if he should use a French song from the movie he saw with Sherlock. What type of music does he like, exactly? When John had asked himself the question, he remembered that Sherlock did mention that he liked classical music, during one of those workshop conversations. But classical music wasn't getting him very far, unless John wanted to sing an opera aria, which he specifically did not. He could do something more classical, though. A love song, but nothing too cheesy, too intense for what it is right now. And then, he had found. It seemed perfect to him, but would Sherlock like it?

John is about to find out. He clears his throat one final time, raising the ukulele to his chest, remembering the first chord. After one final look at Sherlock, he starts:

" _Des yeux qui font baisser les miens_

_Un rire qui se perd sur sa bouche_

_Voilà le portrait sans retouches_

_De l'homme auquel j'appartiens…"_

He looks up, his fingers playing on his own. Sherlock is staring at him, but looks down when their eyes meet.

_"Quand il me prend dans ses bras_

_Il me parle tout bas_

_Je vois la vie en rose_

_Il me dit des mots d'amour_

_Des mots de tous les jours_

_Et ça me fait quelque chose_

_Il est entré dans mon cœur_

_Une part de bonheur_

_Dont je connais la cause…"_

He risks another look again, only to see that Sherlock is intently staring at his lap, fighting the urge to smile.

_"C'est toi pour moi, moi pour toi dans la vie_

_Il me l'a dit, l'a juré pour la vie_

_Et dès que je t'aperçois_

_Alors je sens dans moi_

_Mon cœur qui bat…_ "

He ends the song with a last few chords, and lets the ukulele down. A silence. He looks up. Did he blow it that much? He thought he was pretty good himself!

After what seems to be a small eternity, Greg shoves his hand in John's back. "Man, never thought you knew how to play the ukulele!"

John smiles. "Ah, it's one of my _many_ hidden talents."

He turns on his chair, the ukulele still on his lap. Greg's eyes are blown wide, Molly is smiling with that little expression one has at the end of cheesy Hallmark movies, and even Sarah and her friend seem impressed.

A loud sound makes him turn again on his chair, to see that Sherlock has stood up abruptly. "Thehoursisupnowso— _pardon, euh— vous pouvez… quitter._ " [Sorry, err— you can all… leave.]

Wilkes, Sarah and her friend stare strangely at Sherlock, whose ears have been red for the past five minutes now. Greg squeezes John's shoulder one final time, and stands up with the rest of the people.

John takes his sweet time, putting the ukulele away gently back in its case, a tugging his two bags on the table. Once he sees that everyone has left, except for Sherlock who is apparently busy with searching something amongst the papers on his desk, he stands in front of him.

"Sherlock?"

" _Oui?_ " Sherlock asks, his head going up and his face wearing a casual expression, as if he just realised that John was still there. His ears, though, are still delightfully pink.

" _Lexi Cinema_ ," John says, grinning. " _Vendredi. Hhhuit hhheures._ " [Friday. Eight o'clock.]

"O— okay."

John smiles one more time and takes his bags. When he closes the door behind him, Sherlock has still not found what he was searching for.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John sings La vie en rose, from Édith Piaf, which you can listen to [here](https://www.frenchlyricstranslations.com/la-vie-en-rose-edith-piaf-french-lyrics-and-english-translation/). This video has the English translation of the song, as the English version is pretty different from the original!   
> Also, notice that John cut the song and used the last paragraph instead of the first variation. Instead of "il" (he), he uses "tu" (toi), and so, he directly adresses the song to Sherlock. And Sherlock was clever enough to get that. ;)  
> One chapter left! I'm taking your bets!


	8. Chapter 8

They're sitting beside each other, in the dark. The movie is a French dramatic comedy about a bloke in a wheelchair, and John thinks he would like it if he didn't spend his time glancing at Sherlock. Sherlock, who is intensely staring at the screen, as if nothing else exists in that moment. He only moves when taking a sip from his fizzy drink, not at all interested in the popcorn John had initially bought for the two of them. He's gorgeous, John thinks. He had acknowledged that from day one, of course, how amazing he looked, how interesting he seemed, but over the time, the feeling grew more powerful and it deeply attached somewhere in his chest. It was like a slow, constant river that poured from his heart to his head, making him inevitably dizzy when in Sherlock's presence.

Definitely not like dating a girl.

Not because Sherlock's a bloke, no, but because he's _Sherlock_. He's not making the situation clear. He's not looking back at John, he's not leaning against him, taking the popcorn from John's hands, making their knees touch, his hand on his lap in a clear invitation for John to take it. This is not a rehearsed choreography that both of them know they have to reproduce if they want to get somewhere. In a way, it's even _better_. It's not like anything else. It's new, so new. He's pretty sure Sherlock is interested, and that he knows that this is a date, even if John had thrown it at him. He only needs to make his intention clear, to communicate what he wants, even if he doesn't know how.

It feels a lot like learning a new language.

Except that John's shit at that, as proven by the last few weeks. And so, he does pretty much nothing until the movie ends and the light turn on again. Sherlock stands and John follows, shaking off a few bits of popcorn from his jeans.

"Did you like the movie?" John enquires as they're stepping out of the theater.

"It was all right," Sherlock says with a shrug, not adding anything.

Well, sure, _this_ movie didn't have two young blokes going at it but it was pretty moving towards the end. Even John had teared up, even though he hadn't followed half of it.

They're standing in front of the theater, a bit awkwardly.

"I can't imagine being quadriplegic," he says, scrambling for anything to say.

Sherlock stares at him with a pointed look. Okay, this is not going great.

"Would you want to…" he starts, not knowing how to end that sentence.

"Fish and chips?" Sherlock suggests, his eyebrows raised.

"You remember that!" John laughs.

"I remember everything I store into my Mind Palace. Come on, I know a place."

Sherlock sets off and John follows, trying to keep up with Sherlock's fast pace. They spend the ten minute walk over the fish and chips counter with Sherlock explaining what exactly is a Mind Palace.

"Maybe I could use that to learn French more quickly," John says, once they're sitting down. It's a fairly warm night, and they're just fine in their coats outside, on the high tables just in front of the small shop. John has never noticed the place before, but Sherlock's right about it being the absolute best fish and chips in the whole of London.

Sherlock smiles at him, picking up a chip. "A Mind Palace doesn't work that way."

"Are you implying that I'm too dumb to have one?" John teases.

"No, but it's a memory technique. Learning a language relies more on practice than on memorisation."

"Just say it."

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "Fine. I don't believe you could achieve having a Mind Palace."

"What about a Mind Cottage?"

Sherlock throws a chip at him, and John squeals dramatically. "Oi! Watch it!"

It's suddenly all very easy. If John wasn't convinced when they came out of the theater, he is now. Conversation flows between them, and somehow, somehow he can already see that they fit. He can only hope that Sherlock feels the same.

"D'you always throw food at your dates?"

For a second, Sherlock stares at him intently, his eyes into two fine lines. "I don't… I don't date."

God, has he got this wrong? "Then… what is this?"

"A date," Sherlock says.

"Okay…" John tries, then: "I don't get it."

Sherlock sighs, as if John is being deliberately slow. "I don't _usually_ date. I thought it was… obvious."

"I— oh." Okay, that explains a few things. It's strange, though, that nobody has asked Sherlock on a date before. With him being a genius and looking like _that_. Or maybe they did, but he brushed them off. He didn't brush John off, though. "So… is this all right?"

"John, I am not known for doing things I don't want to."

"Apart from teaching French workshops, apparently."

Sherlock rolls his eyes again, although he is smiling, now. Gotcha. "Well, yes, that. I'm walking you home," he states, as a matter-of-fact, when he notices that John has finished eating. They throw their carton plates and set off on the street, Sherlock apparently remembering the way to where John lives.

"About that," John asks, "why did you have to do the workshops? You're not even an exchange student."

"Ah. The student who was paired off with the program at UCL had to cancel on the first week because a woman he had a sexual relationship with left a very small child on his doorstep."

"You're kidding."

"Nope," Sherlock says. "You can learn many things when you know how to correctly use social media."

"Yeah, doesn't surprise me. So you got the job? How?"

Their hands brush while they're walking. Should he take Sherlock's hand? God, he doesn't know whether he's supposed to initiate, or let Sherlock do it. Probably the latter, he reasons, since he's new at this. It's better if they go at his pace.

"They couldn't find someone quickly enough because they had to send a request for applications again. My mother's a retired math teacher, she knows Madame Bouchard, and suggested that I should take the job to _help her out_. I believe these were the exact words."

"But you… don't like it," John points out.

Sherlock shrugs. "I didn't have much choice in the matter, Mummy usually gets what she wants. My contract is ending soon anyway. They finally found someone to replace me after the exam week is done."

That's only in two weeks, John thinks, but doesn't say. "If it's any consolation, I'll really miss your workshops."

Sherlock stops walking, and stares at him, dubious. "No, you won't. They're terrible."

"Okay, maybe they're not that well adapted for our level of French, but still, I'll miss— seeing you, every week, I guess."

Sherlock's eyes widen, and John quickly looks away as they start walking again. Maybe he shouldn't have said that. It's clear that Sherlock has no idea how to answer that sort of statement. It's not like they're even dating, for God's sake, and now he's making it look as if they're going to be separated for the rest of eternity. Jesus.

This time, it's Sherlock who stops walking. "John?"

"Yeah?"

"Why are you so adamant to learn French?" The question is genuine: Sherlock, for the first time since John has known him, seems entirely perplexed.

"Haven't you deduced it?" he says, but it's not teasing.

"I hypothesised during the first workshop that you were there in order to impress a woman, but I've been… proven wrong, since then."

John sighs. "No, you're right, at first it was because of that. Mary kept talking about learning French, and I just thought…"

"Mary? As in Mary Morstan? Isn't she with Thomas Legrand, the exchange student?"

"Yes, that explains her slight obsession with the language."

"Ah," Sherlock says, and starts walking again, "I see." A pause. "If that makes you feel any better, her pronunciation is atrocious."

John barks out a laugh. That's right, Sherlock had her in the upper-level French workshops. Well, it does make him feel a bit better, but it's not like if he cares about her anyway.

"Why have you kept on learning French, then?" Sherlock asks. "You could have dropped the class and saved yourself a few bad grades."

"Well, you know what— _what_? What _bad grades_?" Sherlock shakes his head, hesitating. "C'mon, tell me!"

"Fine. Mrs Bouchard asked me to correct the writing assignments… _Je ai une chiens pas?_ Honestly, John? _"_ [I have a (fem. form) dogs not?]

John groans. "I was half-asleep when I wrote that! What's up with words having genders, anyway, it's the stupidest thing I've ever heard."

"If it weren't for your high moral standards, I would have altered your grade in order to—"

"Yeah, we're not doing that. You could lose your job."

Sherlock shrugs. "I'm _already_ going to lose it. But fine. I can… help you with your studying, if you want to. After I'm done with the workshops."

John stops on the pavement. They've just reached his flat. Should he invite Sherlock upstairs? He doesn't want this to be over, already. "Are you suggesting… a two-person conversation group?"

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "If you don't want me to alter your grades…"

"No, no, I'd like that. Yeah, you could help. Er, after the workshops, though, so that we're not, I don't know, accused of… anything. You know."

"Good. That's good." Sherlock looks up, probably just now realising that they've arrived. He's gorgeous as ever, under the dim lights of the street. John can feel him hesitating. He's _so_ unsure that it's endearing. "Aren't you going up?" Sherlock asks.

"In a minute." He's not in a hurry. They're not in a hurry. Aren't they? No, certainly not, not when standing like that, in front of each other. This moment could stretch in a small eternity and John would let it.

Sherlock looks down, his chin catching in his blue scarf. "Can I try something?"

"Sure," John breathes out. He's asking what John thinks he's asking, right?

Sherlock ducks in, pressing his lips against John so quickly that he has no time to react before Sherlock retreats. "I'm— sorry."

"Don't be," John says, smiling like an idiot. He leans in again, raising his hand to cradle the side of Sherlock's face, and kisses him again. This time it's slower, but still only a press of lips against lips until Sherlock moves away, staring on his right, as if there's something in the corner of his eye.

"It's only that… I don't know how…" He seems slightly embarrassed, but if John is not wrong, he's enjoyed it as much as he has.

"Ha! Don't worry," John says with a grin, "I can teach you how to make that more… French."

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... have I written 18k of fic to justify this pun? Maybe so. ;)   
> In any case, I want to thank you all for having read along, and left kudos and comments! This fic was always meant to be a bit of fun during my own exam week! And I have to say that I got a good grade in my German exams, so I bless you all with amazing skills (and grades, if you have any!) for the language you're currently learning. It's hard, but remember that you're probably better than John, and even he can make it with a bit of help from his friends!


End file.
